by Nan Rossiter
“What?!” Maeve teased. “Read without me?!”
Harper laughed. “You’ve already read it.”
“I’m just teasing,” Maeve assured her. “You can read it . . . although you’re the one who fell asleep and put an abrupt end to our reading last time.”
“You’re right. I’ll wait,” Harper said, smiling. “What book are we reading next?”
Maeve raised her eyebrows mysteriously. “I have something in mind.”
“What?” Harper asked eagerly.
“I’m not telling because you’ll probably start reading it.”
“No, I won’t,” Harper said, laughing. “I promise.”
Maeve shook her head. “Nope. You have to wait and see.”
“Dang,” Harper said.
Macey laughed. “I’m sorry to mess up your plans.”
“No worries,” Maeve said. “We’ll get through it, won’t we, Harp?”
The little redhead nodded and popped the last of her Cinnamon Swirl into her mouth, and Macey smiled at her easygoing attitude. Harper had come such a long way in the year she’d been living with them—from an untrusting, withdrawn little girl with a barely penetrable wall around her to a funny, fun-loving spitfire with a shy smile who loved to tease Ben at every opportunity, and even called him Daddy-O (which Macey thought was quite fitting because she’d grown up calling him kiddo). She and Ben had also discovered that Harper was a talented artist, a good shot in basketball, and a stellar student with a love for science—especially marine life—and if she kept on the same trajectory, there would be no stopping her!
Harper licked the sugar and cinnamon from her lips. “Where’re we going after this?”
“I thought we’d walk over to Woof Gang Bakery—you know, that specialty pet store in City Market that sells homemade dog biscuits,” Macey said. “I want to pick up some treats and a bandanna for Keeper—something patriotic.”
“Maybe I’ll get a bandanna for Gus, too,” Maeve said brightly.
Harper nodded her approval. “Then they can be twins at the picnic!”
8
MASON KICKED OFF HIS RUNNING SHOES, RAN THE WATER IN THE KITCHEN sink until it was cold, filled a glass, drained it, and filled it again. Ten minutes later, after showering, he stood in front of the stove, drying his hair with a towel. He tossed the towel onto a chair and opened a can of tomato soup. He scooped the contents into a small saucepan, added water, and stirred, and while it simmered, smoothed butter onto two slices of bread. He laid one slice, butter side down, into a frying pan, topped it with American cheese, and then dropped the second slice, butter side up, on top. It was the third time this week that he’d had grilled cheese and tomato soup for supper. Growing up, his mom called it comfort food. Her other favorite comfort food was mac and cheese. If she saw it on a menu—especially if it had lobster in it—she invariably ordered it. Laurie’s own recipe for macaroni and cheese, however, was made with tomato soup and cheddar cheese, and in Mason’s mind it was the true mac and cheese. Needless to say, he’d consumed a lot of tomato soup when he was growing up!
He stirred the soup, turned his sandwich, heard his phone hum, and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Ali asking him if he wanted to come over for dinner. He smiled—he and Ali Harrison had been friends since birth, but lately, their relationship, of its own accord, seemed to be evolving into something more. It had always been one of those easy friendships that had resulted from having moms who’d been lifelong friends and who’d loved to get together with their little ones in tow. Laurie and Sue had even ended up working together in the maternity ward at the hospital, so Sue had always felt as if Mason was one of her own and she’d immediately taken him under her wing when Laurie got sick, inviting him—and usually insisting he come—for dinner, and if he declined, she often sent over a plate heaping with food. Mason texted back that his dinner was already made, and Ali’s next text showed how well she knew him:
Tomato soup and grilled cheese? (sigh)
My specialty!
So predictable
I know
Have you studied for the AP Calc final?
No. Want to study together?
YES!!!
Come over when you’re done
Okay
Mason slid his grilled cheese sandwich onto his plate and then glanced at the screen again.
My mom’s sending over a blueberry pie
Tell her thnx!
Will do!
Mason pushed aside the growing pile of mail on the table and sat down. He dipped his sandwich in his soup, took a bite, and blinked at the golden sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the fine scratches on the rose-colored Formica table. The table was a relic from the 1950s and had belonged to his grandparents—in fact, the little house in which they lived was the same home in which his mom had grown up, so there were a lot of memories there. His mom often told him that she’d sat at that same table to do her homework. In keeping with tradition, Mason did his homework there, too, including, with his mom’s help, every school project he’d ever been assigned between kindergarten and eleventh grade—from the three-dimensional map of the Appalachian Trail he’d made by dripping Sheetrock mud onto plywood to a model of the Hubble Space Telescope, which he’d made with a large V8 juice can, cardboard, balsa wood, aluminum foil, and suction cups. He’d also cut out, sanded, and painted—without his mom’s help—all his Pinewood Derby cars. From the ranks of Wolf to Webelos, every car he’d made for the Pinewood Derby had had a NASCAR theme. His favorite—and by far, fastest—was inspired by Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s red number eight, and even though his scoutmaster had frowned at the Budweiser logo he’d painted on the side, the car had been a bullet! He’d never forget how proud his mom had been, making him hold his trophy and car while she took a dozen photos, and then she’d made an enlargement of her favorite, framed it, and hung it by the door where everyone would see it.
He smiled wistfully. He missed her being there, he missed her laugh and her unflappable disposition . . . and he didn’t know what he would do without her. She always had such a positive attitude about everything—even when she’d received her devastating cancer diagnosis, she hadn’t blinked, but told him not to worry and that she was going to beat it! The treatments had been brutal, though, and she’d lost all her chestnut-brown hair and a ton of weight—weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Now, there was nothing to her—she was so frail and fragile you could push her over with a feather. But through it all, she’d never stopped smiling.
Two weeks earlier she hadn’t been able to keep anything down, and she’d become so dehydrated he’d rushed her to the hospital. Although she’d hoped they would just give her fluids and send her home, they’d admitted her, and it didn’t seem like they’d be ready to let her go home anytime soon. He thought she seemed weaker whenever he visited her, but she always managed to put up a good front, don her most colorful bandanna, and grip his hand with the fierceness of a lumberjack. She also seemed to be trying to think of—and share with him—every wise counsel a mom would say over a lifetime. “Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart. Your life is going to be rich with love and laughter . . . and lots of wonderful memories!”
She also told him she thought Ali, with her sweet smile and infectious laugh, would be a wonderful match, and this had made him blush. “Mom, I’m only seventeen.”
“You’re almost eighteen, Mase,” she’d said, “and I want you to be happy. I want you to find a girl who’ll love you with all her heart. You deserve it, and I know Ali loves you. . . . I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
He’d nodded, trying to fight back tears. If she wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t going to, either, because he knew it would make her sad.
Finally, as her disease progressed, it became evident that her treatments weren’t working, and she’d asked him to bring a notebook. “There’s no mortgage,” she’d said as she jotted things down. “There is a home equity line of credit, though—I took it ou
t when we remodeled the kitchen, but my life insurance will more than cover it.” She’d smiled. “You’ll even be able to paint that old jalopy of yours.”
“It’s a muscle car,” he’d said softly.
“I know,” she’d said with a smile.
Then she turned back to the notebook and wrote down every account number and password she could think of, as well as the name of her attorney—Beau Bartholomew—who, she assured him, was getting her affairs in order. He knew she was trying to think of everything in case she wasn’t around, but the whole process just made his heart ache.
“Did you send the deposit to Georgia Tech?” she’d asked, looking up.
He’d shaken his head.
“Why not?” she’d asked, frowning. “Mason, it’s what you’ve always wanted and worked so hard for. All through high school, it’s been your dream to go to Georgia Tech. . . . You can’t let it go!”
“I can’t go to college right now, Mom,” he’d said.
“I know you’ve been putting your life on hold, Mase, but I really wish you’d sent in the deposit . . . just in case you change your mind. It would be good for you. . . . It would keep you busy and it would keep your mind off things.”
“It wouldn’t keep my mind off things.”
“What will you do then?” she asked softly. “In the fall?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe I’ll be taking care of you.”
“Maybe you could call them and . . .”
“I’m not calling. It’s too late—the deadline already passed.”
She’d shaken her head. “I wish you’d sent it in.” And like any good mom, she’d continued to press him. “You could call them and explain everything and maybe they would let you . . .”
“I’m not, Mom. Please understand—I can’t think about that right now.”
“Okay,” she’d said finally. “I’m sorry for pushing you.”
“It’s okay.”
“There’s one other thing,” she’d said, smiling and searching his eyes. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Mason had sighed, already knowing what it was.
“I want you to promise me you’ll try to find her. . . . I know she would want you to.”
He’d frowned. “How do you know?”
“Because all those years ago, I saw the look in her eyes.”
Mason had looked away—he hadn’t wanted to promise, but she’d reached for his hand. “Promise me, Mason . . .” she’d said, and it was almost a demand.
Mason had bitten his lip and fought back tears. “I promise.”
THERE WAS A SOFT KNOCK ON THE FRONT DOOR AND MASON LOOKED UP. He started to push back his chair, but Ali was already coming down the hall with her backpack slung over her shoulder and a blueberry pie in her hands. “Hey,” she called cheerfully, “when you didn’t answer, I just came in. . . .” But when she reached the kitchen, she saw the look on his face and stopped. “You okay?”
Mason nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” She glanced at the table and saw the unfinished—and now cold—soup and sandwich. “I’m sorry . . . I thought you’d be done by now.”
“I am,” he said, picking up his plate and bowl and bringing them to the counter. “I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”
Ali frowned. “You still want to study? Cuz if you don’t, you know . . . I can just . . . go.”
Mason shook his head and looked out the window. “I want you to stay.” The last thing he wanted was to be alone—not tonight . . . not ever.
“Okay,” Ali said, placing the pie on the counter. She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a small glass Pyrex with a plastic lid. “My mom made whipped cream for the pie . . .” But when Mason didn’t reply, she added, “I’ll just stick it in the fridge.” She opened the door of the refrigerator and was surprised by the emptiness of the shelves. “Mase, have you been eating anything?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been eating.”
“Well, you need to go food shopping because there isn’t much in here.” She paused. “I’ll go with you if you want . . .” Ali walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked softly.
Mason nodded, gazing out the window at the tire swing hanging from the ancient oak tree in the backyard. He still remembered the day his mom had hung it there. He’d held the ladder while she’d climbed, rope in hand, and secured it over a low-hanging branch. He could almost hear her voice reminding him not to let go of the ladder.
“Did you see your mom today?”
He nodded again.
“How is she?”
“The same,” he said, tears springing to his eyes. He quickly wiped them away—he was so damn tired of crying. “She was sleeping—they have her on these really strong pain meds that make her sleep all the time.” He shook his head. “She’s going to sleep away what little time she has left. I honestly think she’s just holding on till graduation.”
“Do you think she’ll be able to come?”
“She says she is, but I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, Mase, I’m sorry.” Ali rested her head on his shoulder.
Mason nodded and slipped his arm around her. “I’m sorry I’m not much fun anymore. I don’t know why you even come over.” He pulled her around to face him, and when she saw tears spilling down his cheeks, she reached up and gently brushed them away.
9
“HOLD ON, THERE, MISTER,” MAEVE SAID AS GUS MOSEYED OVER TO HER Jeep and tried to climb up onto her lap. “If you give me a sec, I’ll give you a proper hello.” She balanced the paper bag from Woof Gang Bakery on top of the pizza box and reached for the bottle of wine she’d tucked behind the seat. “I brought your favorite food . . . and I brought you a present!” she said as the big puppy wiggled around her. She knelt in front of him and he sniffed the pizza box, and then kissed her on the nose.
“Hey,” Gage said, holding open the screen door.
“Hey back,” she said with the same smile that had stolen his heart.
“How was your day? Did Harper muster the courage to get her ears pierced?”
“It was fun, and she did.” The question reminded her of her own new piercing, and she quickly turned her head, but it was too late—he’d already spied the tiny sparkle in the upper curve of her ear.
He gently turned her chin from one side to the other. “Just one?”
Maeve knew she didn’t need Gage’s approval to pierce her ear—it was her body after all—but she suddenly felt the odd need to defend her actions. “Do you know how many earrings I’ve lost over the years?”
He shook his head.
“A ton!” she said, putting the pizza and wine on the counter. “I bet I have a dozen earrings that have lost their mates and they just sit in my jewelry box, useless . . . but now I have a use for them.”
“Sooo . . . it was a practical decision,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
“Of course,” she said, grinning. “Everything I do is practical.”
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, kissing her lips.
“At least I didn’t pierce my navel or my nose . . . or my tongue, as Harper suggested,” she whispered into his kiss.
He pulled back and raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind if you pierced your navel—you do have a cute belly button, but I don’t know about your tongue . . . with food and everything?!” He made a funny face. “And how does a ten-year-old girl know about such things?”
Maeve shook her head. “That ten-year-old girl is wise beyond her years—she even said you’d be really surprised when you kissed me.”
Gage laughed. “Oh, boy!”
“I know, right?” Just then, Gus pushed his head between them and Maeve looked down. “Do you need some attention, too, mister?”
“He just wants some pizza crust,” Gage said.
Maeve laughed again. “I have to give you your present first,” She reached into the paper bag, and Gus plopped promptly on h
is haunches and looked up expectantly. “First, we have all-natural homemade dog biscuits.” She eyed him. “Which would you like to try—peanut butter or yogurt?”
“Duh, peanut butter,” Gage answered, speaking for him with a knowing smile.
Maeve held out a treat and Gus took it politely. “Good boy,” she said, ruffling his ears. “And I have something else for you.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a red, white, and blue bandanna, which she folded into a triangle and tied around his neck. Gus sat patiently, and after she straightened it, she held his head in her hands and looked into his chocolate-brown eyes. “You look very handsome,” she said softly, and he thumped his tail.
Gage watched. “Nice,” he said, nodding his approval. Then he eyed the lanky puppy. “No pulling it off when we’re not looking.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Maeve said. “Would you, ole pie?”
“Mm-hmm.” Gage sounded skeptical as he riffled through his utensil drawer for a bottle opener. “So, no book club tonight?” he asked, pouring a glass of wine for her before opening the fridge for a beer.
“No, Ben’s coming down with something so they’re not going out,” she said, wandering over to his drawing table and turning on the light.
“Yeah, he said he wasn’t feeling well,” Gage said, opening his beer.
When Maeve didn’t answer, he looked up, and then walked over to stand beside her.
“This is amazing,” she said, studying the detailed pencil drawing of his grandfather. She compared it to the photo next to it and decided Dutch, Gage’s grandfather, must’ve been in his early seventies when it was taken, his skin suntanned and wrinkled, his light blue eyes kind and wise. The drawing was so realistic, it could have passed for the photo, but the cold-pressed texture of the paper gave it a softness no photo could ever replicate. “I can’t believe you couldn’t find a gallery to take your work—it’s so beautiful.”
Gage half smiled and took a sip of his beer. “If I’d gotten into a gallery, I probably wouldn’t have met you.”